Blaine Alone
by LadyDivine91
Summary: While Kurt goes on a business trip, Blaine is left alone for a few weeks, and that means learning how to maintain - follow his set schedule, abide by his Dom's rules, and practice at perfecting his submission, all under the guidance of a Dominant who is miles away. He handles things fine for the most part…until about the last week. Written for my Taking a Journey Together series.
1. Aftermath

**This is a sub-ficlet that I am writing for** **itallstartedwithharry** **on tumblr, and takes place around the same time as the one-shot "Restraint", which means that Blaine is still working as a teacher. This is meant to emphasize aspects of 'self-submission', even though this isn't truly 'self-submission' since Blaine has a Dominant. But, in another one-shot, we'll kind of discover how Blaine is different from Kurt's other submissives with regard to how he views submission, deference, etc. I listed ten chapters, but I don't know how many installments total there will be to this series. I will add to the tags as I think of them. Warning - it starts at the end, and then jumps to the beginning. Warnings for this chapter include anxiety and discussion of triggers.**

Step by blasted step, Kurt drags his three-piece luggage set up the incredibly long staircase to his loft. He should have taken the cab driver's offer to lend him a hand, but Kurt doesn't like strangers coming up to his loft. It's his and Blaine's private sanctum, which means no outside eyes allowed…even if he'll end up getting a hernia protecting it. Did his luggage somehow manage to get _heavier_ since he's been away? He did pick up a few things for himself (more for Blaine) while he was touring Milan, but he sent most of that ahead by UPS. God, he feels like a third of his adult life has been spent dragging his exhausted ass up these frickin' stairs at the end of a long day. Blaine is right. Screw living in a historically relevant conversation piece. They need to move to a place that has an elevator. Besides the obvious pros of having a machine at their disposal whose sole purpose is to transport them and their belongings up and down several floors, Kurt can imagine a variety of scenarios that having access to an elevator might allow.

If he wasn't about to pass out on these stairs, he'd have the erection to beat all.

Kurt decided a week in to his endless string of breakfast meetings/lunch meetings/dinner meetings/fashion previews/consults/photo shoots that he is officially done with business trips for a while. He's done with traveling in overbooked planes. He's done with sleeping on stiff hotel mattresses and questionably clean sheets. He's done with room service that never quite gets his order correct. He's done with bathrooms that are always too small and too brightly lit, with shower water that never gets hot enough for his liking, and water pressure too weak for what he assumes a so-called "luxury suite" should provide.

But most of all, he's done going away for weeks and leaving his sub behind. He'd be fine leaving New York for a month if he could take Blaine with him. He would have taken Blaine if Blaine weren't still preparing for his show ( _God_ , it feels like that's taking forever). Kurt doesn't give three craps about Blaine's teaching job. If the school district showed Blaine more respect, Kurt would allow Blaine to make it a priority. But they don't, so Kurt doesn't. That fucking job is a situation that needs to change. But as soon as Kurt can, he's stealing his sub for a nice weekend away, some place tropical.

Some place clothing optional.

Room service would taste so much better if he had Blaine's toned, athletic body to eat it off of. Kurt wouldn't care then if his steamed vegetables were limp and tasteless or his foie gras not smoked to perfection. Sleeping on crappy sheets would be passable if Blaine was bound in bed beside him, available for fondling and tormenting whenever Kurt felt the urge. And why would he give a fuck about a cold, drippy shower when he'd have a hot mouth cleaning his cock?

Kurt stops on the step he's on and closes his eyes. He's only six stairs away from his front door, and then he'll have the comfort of Blaine's body again, the steadfastness of his discipline and obedience to truly make Kurt feel at home.

 _Must…go…faster…_

Those last six steps are the worse, but Kurt bares it, keeping himself from calling Blaine on his cell phone to come out and help since that first glimpse of his sub kneeling at the door is what Kurt is longing for. It's his light at the end of the tunnel. He doesn't want to besmirch it.

He expects to see Blaine kneeling on the hardwood floor in front of him, his head bowed, soft curls falling into his face, his muscular back straight, shoulders squared, hands on knees, waiting to be of service.

Kurt sticks his key in the lock and jiggles it once, alerting Blaine to his arrival. He takes one last moment to prepare, then opens the loft door with a grin on his face, which falls the second he looks in.

Blaine isn't there.

Once the shock subsides, Kurt clamps his teeth in anger. He texted Blaine when his plane landed, and again when he caught a cab to let his sub know that he would be home soon, but Blaine should have been preparing long before then. He should have cleaned the loft, prepared dinner, and showered, as per his schedule. He should be kneeling in the doorway naked with his plug inserted in anticipation of Kurt's use. But there is no sub at Kurt's door waiting for him, no welcome to receive him after his long flight home, and Kurt is not happy.

Kurt is about to turn around and leave, go for a walk around the block to calm himself before he does something rash, but he hears Blaine in the loft. Out of curiosity, he stops and listens.

He hears the sound of water sloshing.

He hears a brush scrubbing at the wood floor.

He hears sniffling and whimpering, the aftermath of a hard, violent sob.

He hears the sounds of pain and defeat. They wind around Kurt's heart and take hold, drawing him inside.

Kurt walks in and shuts the door behind him. He isn't sure what's going on, but whatever happens next he wants to happen in private. He doesn't have to go far before he spots Blaine. At first glance, he's tempted to laugh, but that's before he adds the crying to the visual and comprehends a bit more what's going on.

He has to give his sub credit. He _is_ kneeling on the floor, and he _is_ naked. He's also covered in purple paint up to his elbows. It's spattered on his chest and covering his legs. Kurt shudders in sympathy for Blaine. Blaine _hates_ being covered in paint, or anything that even _feels_ like paint. It's a tremendous trigger for him. When Blaine was a young boy, his older brother Cooper pranked him. He told Blaine that he could help him get the part of The Wicked Witch of the West in his school's production of _The Wizard of Oz_ , but that Blaine would have to commit to the part. He would need to learn "method acting", actually become The Wicked Witch by living the role every day. He convinced Blaine to strip down to his underwear in their backyard so that he could help him with his transformation, then pushed him into a kiddie pool filled with green paint. The paint was old acrylic interior house paint that their father had stored in the garage and forgotten about. It was rank and thick, and even though it didn't cover Blaine's face completely, he had felt like he was drowning in it. Now even touching paint makes him feel like he's suffocating.

"Pet," Kurt says, hoping Blaine will immediately jump to, because that will mean that Blaine won't have lingered too long in this private horror. He won't have sunk too far into it, and relived the horrible memories it surfaces. But Blaine's head doesn't snap up at the sound of Kurt's voice, though fear of punishment shimmers in his watery eyes. He raises his head slowly, resignedly, his cheeks red, his eyes redder, tears streaming down and collecting at his chin.

"S-sir?"

On any other day, with any other mess, Kurt would make him finish. He would walk by and go straight to the shower while Blaine scrubs the floor clean, then give him ten lashes with the cane as punishment for not being ready on time. But Kurt has been gone for weeks, and he misses Blaine. He misses his _sub_ Blaine, his _friend_ Blaine, his _lover_ Blaine. Now's not the time for discipline. Besides, it looks like Blaine has managed to punish himself more than sufficiently anyhow. Now's a time for reconciliation, and above all, a little exposition.

Kurt needs to know exactly what it is he just walked in on. He has his suspicions, but he needs Blaine to tell him so that they can work through the fallout to come.

With Blaine's eyes on him, Kurt undresses, carefully peeling the clothes from his body and laying them over a chair. Even without the homecoming he was so looking forward to, there's an immense relief that comes from stripping down, the last few weeks lifting from his shoulders as he removes his shoes, tie, shirt, and pants. When he's naked, and his clothes out of harm's way, he opens his arms to Blaine. Without hesitation, Blaine leaves his brush and pushes off the floor. Still covered in wood soap and paint, he runs into his Dom's arms. He's shaking all over, the tremors in his body almost strong enough to bring them both to the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Blaine says with a new wave of tears. "I'm so so sorry. I'm…I'm sorry…" Blaine shudders in Kurt's arms, and Kurt tightens his embrace. Whatever happened while he was gone, it must have been pretty intense. Before Kurt can iron out their next course of action, he needs to take care of his boy first. He can get the floor professionally cleaned. And Kurt can celebrate coming home another time. Those are not the issue.

 _Blaine_ is more important right now.

"Come on," Kurt says, holding Blaine steady as he limps on sore legs, probably bent and pressed into the wood floor for hours as he tried to clean up his mess. "Let's get showered, let's get you spanked, and then, my pet, we'll have a talk."


	2. Preparation - Part 1

**In preparation for leaving his sub alone while he goes on a business trip, Kurt teaches Blaine the different discipline techniques he'll need to use when his Dom requires it.**

 **This chapter jumps backward in time before the first chapter, which, as we know, is actually the last chapter. Written for the Bitchmas prompt 'bough'. Warning for cock whipping and recreational Viagra use. This scene also illustrates humiliation through condescension.**

"1 … 2 … 3 … 4 …" Blaine's strained voice peters behind the off-beat staccato rhythm of the switch coming down hard on his swollen, uncaged cock.

"Don't tense your face, pet," Kurt commands. "You'll get wrinkles. Count the swats off with an open mouth and a relaxed jaw. Round out the vowels." He crouches to Blaine's eye level and demonstrates. "It's good practice for the stage."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Blaine opens his mouth and drops his lower jaw to his chest, stretching stiff muscles and relieving the pressure that's been building up with his teeth clenched tight.

"Don't dilly-dally, pet. We haven't got all day." Kurt slaps Blaine's bare ass cheek with his own switch, cut from the same willow tree as Blaine's. Blaine rolls his shoulders, blows out a breath, and braces to start again.

"… 5 _grrr!_ " The first blow is always the hardest, though the ones after that are sons-of-bitches, too "… 6 … 7 … 8 …"

"And don't speed up. It won't get you to the finish line any faster, I promise you."

Blaine exhales sharply twice, one for each of the last two slaps of this set. "… 9 … 10 _grrr_!" Blaine shudders, and drops his arm.

"Don't let your switch hit the floor, pet!" Kurt snaps, rushing forward to rescue the tip before it makes contact with the floor. "You'll get germs on it. You don't want the germs from your feet touching your dick, do you?"

"N-no, Sir," Blaine stutters, lifting his tired hand holding the willow switch like a violin bow, hovering above the erection that Blaine has been maintaining with the help of Viagra and his Dom's hand. "Th-thank you, S-sir."

"Let's try ten more. And don't be limp-wristed," Kurt says, delivering a stinging blow to Blaine's wrist. "And remember, I need to hear that branch snap."

Blaine chews his lip, attempting to redirect the throbbing in his cock elsewhere in his body, but it's no use. With as artificially hard as his dick is, there's no soft, pliant flesh to absorb the blows. Worse than the sting of sliced flesh is _painfully swollen_ sliced flesh – every surface bared with nowhere to hide, no folds to protect against the attack.

"1 (snap) … 2 (snap) … 3 (snap) … 4 (snap) …" Blaine cries each number, every crack of his switch harder than the last to achieve that ricocheting sound that Kurt uses to measure Blaine's success.

"No, no, no. It's not about force, pet," Kurt criticizes. "It's about technique. If you do it right, you maximize your strike with little in the way of travel from your wrist. That way, you don't end up with carpal tunnel. Here …" Kurt kneels to the side of him "… let me demonstrate."

Mind muddied, his cock blistering, Blaine doesn't even think to beg Kurt to reconsider before his Dom's switch is raining blows on his cock – once, twice, over and over, painting welts that have already formed a darker shade of red.

"… 3 … 4 … 5 … 6 …" Kurt counts out loud. His switch strikes in rapid and even succession; his wrist and hand barely move as the branch _thwap-thwap-thwaps_ against Blaine's skin.

Blaine grits his teeth, dry lips pulled over them till they come close to splitting. Throat open wide, he screams silently in his mouth, all breath and no voice trapped behind his grimace. His eyes water, unblinking, as he tries to push the pain away, but there's nowhere to push it to when every hit narrows to the same few inches, which burns like lemon juice on paper cuts covered in fire ants and bleach.

"… 7 … 8 … 9 … 10, and we're done. See, pet?" Kurt stands, and Blaine catches himself before he can fall forward. "It's all about technique. When you perfect your technique, your arms won't get tired as quickly."

"Y-yes, S-sir," Blaine pants. "Th-thank you, S-sir, for t-teaching me. I pr-promise to r-remember."

"Very good, pet," Kurt coos, running his hand through Blaine's hair, lightly damp with sweat. "Excellent. But practice makes perfect. So, take a deep breath in … let it out … and let's begin again."


	3. Coping

**Kurt is away. Blaine is alone. And Blaine is having one of the worst days of his life. But a few words from his Dom and a little self-confidence go a long way towards turning things around in the end.**

 **This takes place fairly early in their relationship, so we see Blaine working as a teacher, and we see his anxiety as a bit more extreme than it's been in later installments. But we're focusing on how Blaine handles being a submissive with his Dominant away - how he copes, how he serves Kurt, how Kurt's schedule and structure help him, the way they keep their D/s relationship going even though Kurt is away, etc. Written for the Klaine Valentines Challenge prompt Day 8 "The Way You Look Tonight" but originally inspired by the Klaine Advent Drabble prompt "universe" xD**

Blaine is having a fucking awful day.

It's not just that the weather is lousy; his luck kind of sucks. His bus broke down, meaning he had to run the last two blocks to school in the pouring rain. He's absolutely overloaded with work. Back to back parent-teacher meetings monopolize his entire afternoon before the sure-to-be-crowded Open House tonight, and oh, did he spill mustard down the front of his shirt - the only shirt he has with him?

Yes. Yes, he did.

Normally he carries a spot treating pen, and brings extra clothes along for hectic days like this _just in case_ , but he's been so overwhelmed, it slipped his mind. He manages to swipe a forgotten bottle of flat soda water from the fridge in the teacher's lounge and gets the mustard mostly out, but it still leaves a faint yellow-brown shadow that makes him self-conscious about how he looks. Someone's bound to notice tonight. They'll notice and make a comment, then the principal will find out and _he'll_ make a comment …

This isn't like Blaine, and Blaine will say that, except that today, it is, and he can't fix it. There's nowhere he can go to buy a replacement shirt, and even if there was, he has zero time.

Blaine feels useless. Pathetic and useless.

Useless because there's no Kurt around to be of use _to_.

Blaine woke up this morning to an empty loft. He did his chores per usual, as if Kurt were there, but Kurt _wasn't_ there. Kurt is on a business trip … in France. Kurt is away on business and Blaine is alone. And he feels that alone-ness in every inch of his skin, every muscle, every bone. He goes about his daily schedule the way he's supposed to, continues to serve because service to his Dom is service to his Dom whether Kurt's there or not. But there's a part of him that feels ridiculous kneeling beside an empty chair or sleeping on the floor beside an empty bed.

He didn't really sleep at all last night, which adds to the misery of his day.

Kurt not being there doesn't mean that Kurt doesn't keep in contact with him. Blaine still does his check-ins at pre-determined times every day, telling Kurt when he eats and what he eats, when he exercises, every time he goes to the bathroom – basically everything he does from sun up to sun down. There are the pictures he needs to send and the tasks he has to complete. They Skype in the morning and the evening, and it's almost enough.

But it's not the same as Kurt physically being there, watching him, touching him, commanding him.

Holding him.

This feeling of loss weighs Blaine down, makes it hard for him to function. It's as if the universe realized his Dom was gone and declared open season on him in the form of anxiety.

Blaine has to get past this. That's actually one of Kurt's tasks for him – to be more comfortable alone. Kurt would rather take Blaine with him on all of his business trips, but between Blaine's job as a teacher and his _Kinky Boots_ rehearsals, Blaine just couldn't get away. Blaine has coping mechanisms in place – his Master's monogrammed plug up his ass, his Master's cock in a cage (new, and slightly annoying, but still a comfort since it comes from Kurt), and the harness he's managed to tie by himself around his chest, perfectly hidden by his dress shirt and sports coat. But they're not helping the way that they should because, without Kurt to come home to, they're just things.

Objects.

Blaine tries to escape by becoming an object, too, but his mind constantly drifts away, wondering where Kurt is, what he's doing, how he's handling being without his submissive.

Does Kurt miss Blaine as much as Blaine misses him? Is he handling things better than Blaine? Of course, he is. Kurt's completely independent. He's an expert at creating structure for himself as well as others, better at keeping calm under pressure, at improvising when he has to. He probably would have made himself a new shirt in five seconds using the old curtains in storage. Kurt doesn't need Blaine the way Blaine needs Kurt.

Assuring himself of that, Blaine ends up in the bathroom in tears.

It's a long eleven hours from the time he gets to school till parents start showing up for Open House, flooding the halls in search of their children's homerooms, examining their art on the walls or the assignments teachers have left on their desks for parents to see. Being a part time A.P. teacher, Blaine shares his room with another teacher, but they haven't made an appearance yet. So Blaine's alone with a room full of parents he's only interacted with one at a time before. But now they're all together, like a gaggle of ex's, whispering to one another and, in his mind, judging him. He's probably overreacting, but he knows that one or two of them are. He overhears one mother comment to the mother sitting next to her: "He's so young … and _attractive_ … but he dresses like my Uncle Rupert. I mean, a bowtie _and_ a cardigan? At least it's not a vest. But look at those pants! They're _atrocious_!"

Blaine doesn't know what to do. If this was happening during the school day between students, he would tell his kids to ignore comments like that, then he would remind the class that rude remarks have no place in his classroom. But these women are _adults_. He can't call them out for hurting his feelings. Aside from being adolescent, that would kill his reputation at this school.

Kurt would tell him that those women are immature, beneath him, not to pay them any mind, but Blaine feels like he's back in high school – at the public school he attended before his parents put him in Dalton. The anxiety that's been tickling the back of his mind starts to grow, overshadowing things around him, turning conversation into noise, making the lights too bright, transforming the dull pounding in the front of his skull into a full-blown headache.

He's about to excuse himself to the bathroom so he can splash cold water on his face, catch his breath, when he feels a buzzing in his pocket, perilously close to his cock cage. He fishes his phone out before it can cause any discomfort. He didn't expect a message from Kurt just yet. Kurt had said during this morning's Skype call that he would be busy all day today. Blaine has made all of his check-ins so far (the only thing he's managed to pull off perfectly today), so there's no reason for Kurt to demand an explanation for a missed one. Even though he should be getting the ball rolling, Blaine decides to take a peek. He wants to know why his Dom is thinking about him.

After the day Blaine's had, he deserves it.

He opens the message, reading with a poker face so as not to elicit anymore unnecessary commentary.

 _From: Kurt_

 _You are gorgeous today. Positively stunning, pet._

Blaine rolls his eyes. He feels guilty immediately after, but it had been a reflex.

 _From: Blaine_

 _I beg your pardon, but you haven't seen me since this morning, Sir. Trust me when I tell you, I'm not holding up that well._

 _From: Kurt_

 _Don't argue with me, pet. I don't have to see you. I know you, inside and out. Even if you sprouted a face full of acne and gained thirty pounds, you would still be gorgeous to me. You are an amazing human being, Blaine Anderson. And I don't need to see the way you look tonight to know that._

Blaine bites his lips together. It suddenly doesn't matter that people are watching him or what they think. He realizes it never did. The only person who matters just called him _amazing_.

He also _scolded_ Blaine, which makes Blaine's skin prickle all over in the best possible way.

 _From: Blaine_

 _Thank you, Sir. You've just made my day._

 _From: Kurt_

 _You're very welcome, pet. When you get home, we'll Skype, and you can make_ _ **my**_ _day._

 _From: Blaine_

 _Yes, Sir. But just so you know, I might be later than usual._

 _From: Kurt_

 _Do you think I care about the hour, pet? The time doesn't matter._ _ **You**_ _do. Have to go. Talk with you later. Love you._

 _From: Blaine_

 _Love you, Sir._

"Hey! Mr. A!" One of Blaine's students calling from the doorway, walking in with his folks in tow, reminds Blaine that he's in a room full of people – students and parents waiting for him to speak. "Lookin' sharp."

"Thank you, Tyrell," Blaine says, slipping his phone back in his pocket.

"Op! But you've got mustard on your shirt, man."

"Yeah, well, I needed to take attention away from my _atrocious_ pants."

Tyrell laughs, but from the front row, Blaine hears a dual gasp.

It's a petty dig, but it feels _excellent_. Blaine only glances at the women in the front who had been discussing his pants moments before. One woman blanches, the other turns bright red. Blaine's sure Kurt would be proud, and after that, Blaine knows he can handle the rest of the evening.


	4. Thorns

**It's a few days after Kurt has gone, and Blaine is still adjusting to being alone. He gets a hand from Kurt, but it still ends a little bittersweet.**

 **Warning for mention of anxiety, self-bondage, and pain play.**

 _"_ _How many thorns do you think these roses have, pet? Ten? A dozen a piece?" Kurt pulls on the ropes of Blaine's harness. He just gives it a gentle tug, but that's enough to dig the thorns on the stems stuck beneath into the bare skin of Blaine's chest._

 _"_ _I don't know, Sir," Blaine manages through teeth clenched tight. He feels mainly pressure, very little in the way of sting._

 _"_ _Hmm …" Kurt grabs the ropes crossed between Blaine's shoulder blades and pulls harder, until the thorns over Blaine's pecs and sternum drive in. Blaine pinches his lips together, groan stifled. "Well, think harder, pet? How many does it feel like to you?" Kurt twists and the stems bend, some till they snap, their thorns pricking Blaine till he bleeds._

 _"_ _Uh … ah … a-at least a dozen, S-Sir." Blaine pulls his shoulders back a hair and sucks in a breath, but not to escape the thorns._

 _To give Kurt more room to pull the ropes tighter._

 _Kurt sees._

 _He sees and he smiles at his little pain slut, at the enjoyment that Blaine thinks he's hiding._

 _Blaine may be an exceptional actor, but this stage belongs to Kurt, and Kurt knows most of his tricks by now._

 _"_ _Well, I'll count them out then, pet," Kurt says, twisting the ropes again slowly, "and when we get a total, we'll multiply it by twelve, one for each rose, and that's how many times you'll fuck your special chair."_

 _Blaine swallows, shallowly in the hopes that Kurt won't notice. He didn't think that Kurt caught that subtle inhale, or his shoulders slide back._

 _But Blaine should have known better. Kurt has a way of seeing everything._

Blaine runs his fingertips over the velvety petals of this new bouquet of long-stemmed roses - a gift from Kurt, delivered to Blaine's school while Kurt's away. Blood red roses, _always_ blood red roses. They're a symbol of more than just the passionate love they share. They represent the things that bind Kurt and Blaine together on both an intellectual and primitive level. Red is the color of seduction, violence, danger, and adventure. It's a color that represents Blaine's anxious energy, but also Kurt's obsessive energy. Red is the color of strength and power.

It's also the color of _sin_.

The thorns on these roses are thicker than those others had been. Blaine's a disaster at keeping flowers alive. They probably won't last. These stems will more than likely be brittle by the time Kurt comes home.

An opportunity missed.

Blaine glances over at his "special chair". It's just a plain wood chair, used in all sorts of ways for different kinds of scenes, but for that scene in particular, Kurt had attached one of his large, suction cup dildos to it. He'd ordered Blaine to sit on it, and made Blaine fuck it.

Because when Blaine misbehaves, that's the only cock up his ass he deserves.

Kurt didn't let him cum, but that was one of Blaine's first official punishments at the loft. Shame wouldn't have let him cum if he'd wanted to.

Kurt locked up their dildos and vibrators when he left, but even if he hadn't, Blaine wouldn't have permission to use the chair on his own anyway.

And that poses a bit of a problem.

The card on the roses says, "Re-create, pet, but be creative. I love you."

It's a task, and Blaine has to complete it.

Complete it _alone_.

He starts with something easy, something familiar - the ritual of undressing. His clothes get removed in a certain order, so programmed in his brain by now that he'd actually have to concentrate to do it any other way. He methodically puts the pieces of his ensemble away, folding each item carefully and placing it in the hamper for inspection when Kurt returns home. No underwear though. Kurt took all of Blaine's underwear with him when he left. Sometimes Blaine wonders exactly what Kurt is doing with his underwear.

Did he stuff it in a drawer and forget about it?

Does he look at it from time to time?

Does he touch it and think about Blaine?

It's difficult to tie the harness by himself. He hasn't gotten adept at it yet. It requires him to contort his arms almost completely behind his back. He knows there are other methods, _easier_ methods. There are videos online that will show him how to do it if he needs them, but this has always been the way with him – strain and struggle, struggle and strain. Not because he likes to make things difficult on himself. He's a little stressed and having trouble thinking of another way.

It's easier to think when Kurt's around.

Blaine manages the harness, carrying it down his hips and anchoring it to his thighs. It takes him a few times to get it as tight as he wants it, and even then it falls short, but it's still a decent harness – one he thinks would make Kurt proud. He's not quite the Shibari expert Kurt is, but Blaine's practicing. Learning. He'll take pictures of it, as well as the aftermath. Kurt has a digital SLR and a tripod set up to document their sessions. Blaine will take stark, violent pictures, and soft, diffused pictures. He'll take pictures that Kurt can put on their blog, with his face turned away from the camera.

He'll take pictures for Kurt's personal use, staring into the lens, his eyes filled with the truth of his love, his devotion, and his mild distress at being alone.

One by one, he slides the roses underneath the ropes. He's only careful not to break the stems; he couldn't care less what the thorns do to his skin. He picks the areas where the ropes are tied tight and where the skin is most sensitive. There are a dozen roses in all – enough to cover a fair amount of Blaine's torso, his upper arms, and his thighs. He sticks one in the ropes crisscrossing his abs, the end of the stem positioned over his cock. With the cage on, Blaine can't feel the thorns there, but in that delicate skin where Kurt keeps Blaine's happy trail waxed, they leave scratches, and marks almost like teeth.

Now that he's trussed up, he doesn't know what to do. What's the next step? _Be creative_ the card said. How? And how creative does Kurt want him to be? He can't rig himself to the ceiling. He hasn't gotten anywhere near that far yet.

He has to think of something, but he's stymied.

He finds himself in a corner – literally. In _his_ corner – the corner where Kurt sends him when he's had a bad day, the corner where he goes and kneels when he needs to think, focus, or reflect. He drops to his knees, the shift in muscles and the pull of the rope moving the stems, driving the thorns into new places. But before long, he's dropping further, lying on the cold floor and rolling into the fetal position. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs himself, the way he would hug Kurt if Kurt were there.

But the thorns burying themselves into his skin with no one there to count them remind Blaine that he's not. He's alone, and he'll fall asleep alone, on his bed of thorns.


End file.
